


Like Father, Like Son

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:29:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even safe in Gondolin, Maeglin is haunted by the legacy of his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Father, Like Son

Maeglin knew the exact spot on the walls. There were a few feet of masonry where he knew every indentation, every mark and discolouration of the smooth white stone greeting him like an old friend. He knew the way the paving stones met, and how they were worn and how one of them had a little chip at the corner. He came to the spot often enough. In the morning, before most of the rest of the city was awake, and the only people to see him were a few guards on the walls, who were happy enough to let him be. Sometimes he would stand on the walls, looking out over the Vale of Tumladen to where the sun was rising over the mountains, bathing his pale face in its bloody light.

Sometimes he stood on the very brink, where his father had been made to stand, a guard’s sword at his throat, dark eyes flashing. He looked down. Down to where his father’s body had been, a broken thing on the rocks. He could not see his father’s face then; it was too far away, his form only a dark spot against the stone. But in his mind he saw his face, clear as if he were standing beside him. Washed with pain, but with a slight hint of something mocking as he caught Maeglin’s eye, a touch of a knowing smile as the life slid from his eyes.

But Maeglin knew that it was only his imagination; he had not really seen his father’s face as he lay dying. Just a dream, a false memory. What was real was the void in front of him, the great emptiness just before his feet. It would be so easy, he thought sometimes. So easy to take a little step forwards, impossible to go back. What would falling feel like? Surely it would feel wonderful, like flying in a dream. Weightless. What would hitting the ground feel like? The though kept returning, pushing its way into his mind. Daring him to take that step, playing with him. He never did. He would not let his father’s last words become truth.

And yet his father was always there, just behind his everyday thoughts, his last moments trickling through Maeglin’s consciousness. Sometimes, when his mind was unoccupied, the images would come to him unbidden. The shattered limbs. The blood seeping slowly into the rock fissures, dark and sticky. Had there been pain? Sometimes Maeglin dreamed that it was himself lying there on the rocks, screaming soundlessly, unable to move. He would wake up wide eyed and childishly frightened, before slipping back into a half-sleep filled with his father’s mocking whisper and dark shapes that never quite solidified into anything tangible.

But sometimes he would not go back to sleep. Sometimes he would get up, and get dressed, and go outside. Sometimes he would wander the streets in the early morning, and then he would start to feel that place calling to him. That spot on the walls, the one he knew so well. And he would be drawn to it against his will, some strange, cruel part of his own mind tugging at his body. His feet would take him there, and he would stand on the edge, and look down, into the emptiness, so close. Eventually the first people would begin to appear on the streets, and the moment would be over. He would shake his head a little, and make his way back to his rooms, as if he had never left. But it would colour his entire day with a vague sense of unease. Sometimes he thought that Idril could tell when she saw him on those days. A strange expression would cloud her clear eyes, a mixture of pity, concern and fear.

He hated himself for that, hated that little flicker of fear in her eyes. And he did not want her pity. All he could do was try to fight the darkness, to look away from the drop. To say  _No. I am not him. I will not be him._

In the end it was not enough.

————

Maybe he had known, he thought, the last of his consciousness unravelling, a twisted, shattered haze. Maybe he had known all along that it would be him one day, him on the rocks, his body broken, useless. Far above him the smoke curled, black and oily. It mingled with the other blackness, the one narrowing his vision, the blind darkness made of pain. As he felt himself start to detach from his body, he had the sudden impression of someone watching him, standing near. His father? Come to welcome his son kindly, holding out his arms to him with that mocking smile?

All went dark. 


End file.
